Ross's frown deepened as he watched the live feed, his knuckles white against the edge of the monitor. He'd expected a balanced fight—two gamma monsters against one enhanced human should've been at least competitive.
Instead, he was watching a massacre.
Smith Doyle wasn't fighting. He was toying with them, the way a cat plays with mice before the kill. The comparison to an adult beating children wasn't just apt—it was uncomfortably accurate.
The Abomination pushed itself upright, concrete dust sliding off its scaled hide. It recovered quickly from the stunning blow, shaking off the disorientation with visible effort. Its massive palm swept toward Smith in a backhanded slap designed to swat him away like an insect.
Smith's body blurred.
The attack passed through empty air, the displaced wind ruffling debris on the ground. Smith reappeared before the Abomination's arm had even finished its arc, already inside its guard. His fist drove into the creature's face with a meaty thwack that echoed across the street.
Smith blinked in mild surprise. The Abomination's head had snapped sideways from the impact, but the creature was still standing. Still conscious. He'd held back, certainly, but he'd expected more... give.
Tougher than it looks, Smith thought, his analytical mind cataloging the information. Less raw power than Hulk, but better durability. Interesting.
The Abomination's head rotated back, its jaw working. It spat something onto the pavement—three teeth, trailing bloody saliva. Fresh bone was already pushing through the bleeding gums, gamma-powered regeneration beginning immediately.
A sudden pressure wave slammed into Smith from behind.
He hadn't sensed an attack—this was pure environmental force, a hurricane-strength wind that picked him up and hurled him down the street like a leaf in a storm. He tumbled through the air, debris whipping past him, before catching himself with a burst of ki.
The Hulk stood twenty yards back, his massive palms still pressed together from the thunderclap that had generated the shockwave. An expression of fierce joy spread across his green features—finally, he'd landed something that worked.
The Abomination's face split into a grotesque grin. Blonsky's tactical mind was reasserting control over the gamma-induced rage, his military training pushing through the haze of violence. If brute force wasn't working, then coordination and tactics were needed.
The Hulk clapped again, sending another compressed air blast screaming toward Smith. The Abomination mimicked the technique immediately, adding its own thunderclap to the assault. The two shockwaves merged, amplifying each other, creating a sustained barrage that tore up the street in its wake.
Cars flipped end-over-end. Streetlights bent double and snapped like twigs. The already-destroyed pavement cracked further, chunks of asphalt and concrete bouncing like gravel in the windstorm. Fire hydrants burst, adding jets of water to the chaos.
Smith stood at the center of the maelstrom, his feet planted, his jacket whipping around him. The smile on his face widened.
"It's not enough," he called out, his voice cutting through the roar of wind. "It's still too weak."
He took a deliberate step forward, pushing against the hurricane force like it was nothing more than a stiff breeze.
"Can you use a little more strength? It's like a gentle breeze on my face." Another step, his boots crunching on broken glass. "Is this all you have?"
SHIELD Triskelion Headquarters - Washington, D.C.
Nick Fury hadn't left the office despite the late hour. Bruce Banner's file lay open on his desk, cross-referenced with a dozen other documents he'd requisitioned from various agencies. The man was a ghost—brilliant, dangerous, and remarkably good at disappearing.
The door burst open without preamble. Hill strode in, tablet already extended.
"Fury, there's an emergency."
Fury took the tablet, his single eye narrowing as he processed the footage. A monster—grotesque, muscular, wrong—rampaging through Broadway. Civilians scattering. And then Smith Doyle, appearing like a bullet from heaven to engage the threat.
"Where is this?" Fury demanded, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
"Broadway," Hill confirmed.
Fury's jaw tightened. Not some abandoned warehouse district. Not the docks. Broadway—high-profile, crowded, maximum visibility. Every news outlet in the city would have cameras on this within minutes.
"What's the situation now?"
Hill pulled up additional feeds on the tablet, swiping through multiple angles. "We can't confirm yet if the monster is the Bruce Banner the military's been hunting. But there are military personnel on scene, and General Ross's helicopter is overhead. We've confirmed his presence."
Fury's mind raced through implications and consequences. Ross, conducting military operations on American soil, in the middle of Manhattan, without proper authorization or coordination. The political shitstorm alone would be legendary.
"Get General Ross on the line," Fury ordered. "Now."
Ross's Command Helicopter - Above Broadway
The helicopter had descended to get a better view when the communications officer spoke up, his voice carefully neutral.
"General, there's a signal coming from SHIELD."
Ross didn't even glance at the man. He held out one hand, and the officer placed the headset in his palm. Ross fitted it over his ear, his attention still fixed on the battle below.
"General Ross, on Broadway—" Nick Fury's voice came through, professional but tight with barely-contained anger.
Ross cut him off before he could build momentum. "Everything here is taken over by the military. It is an internal military matter of the United States. You have no authority to ask about it."
He let the words hang for a beat, making sure Fury understood this wasn't negotiable.
"If you have any questions, contact me through the Pentagon."
Ross yanked the headset off and thrust it back at the communications officer, dismissing Fury and SHIELD in the same gesture.
He'd used SHIELD resources to track Banner—their surveillance network was admittedly impressive—but he'd be damned if he let them muscle in on his operation now. Especially not when there were two gamma specimens on the field. SHIELD would claim one of them the moment they had legal justification, citing national security or some bureaucratic nonsense.
No. These were his monsters. His responsibility, his cleanup, his prize.
"Urge the troops to assemble quickly," Ross barked at his aide. "Also, check the perimeter for any members of the Fraternity or the Universal Capsule Company. Smith Doyle wouldn't appear here for no reason."
He needed leverage. If Smith's people were on the ground, that gave him an opening for negotiation.
"I need to have some communication with them," Ross added.
The aide winced slightly. "General, it may take a little while."
Ross shot him a withering glare, then returned his attention to the monitors. Time was a luxury he didn't have, but neither was blindly fumbling without intelligence.
SHIELD Triskelion Headquarters
The line went dead with a harsh click. Nick Fury stared at the phone for a moment, then hurled it across the office. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor.
"Fuck!" He slammed his palm on the desk. "Fuck!"
The military's non-cooperation was nothing new—they'd been territorial and obstructive since SHIELD's inception. But this was beyond jurisdictional pissing matches. Ross had just orchestrated a super-powered incident in the heart of Manhattan and had the audacity to hang up on him.
Hill stood silently near the door, her expression professionally blank. She'd worked with Fury long enough to know when to let him vent.
Fury forced himself to breathe, channeling the anger into something productive. His mind was already working through angles, pressure points, ways to make Ross pay for this insult.
"Hill," he said, his voice dangerously calm now. "Send agents to Broadway to investigate. We need firsthand information."
He moved around the desk, pacing now, his strategic mind assembling the pieces.
"Since Ross doesn't think SHIELD's help is needed, then don't let the agents get involved directly. Record the damage. Document the public impact. Casualty counts, property destruction, every broken window and traumatized civilian."
His smile was cold and predatory. "Since Ross wants to handle this alone, let him bear all the consequences. And when the Senate starts asking questions about military overreach and urban combat zones, we'll have a very complete file to share."
He paused at the door, one more thought occurring to him. "Also—find out why Smith Doyle appeared there. Last time it was Tony Stark's invitation. What's the reason this time?"
Without waiting for acknowledgment, Fury strode into the hallway. Hill pulled out her phone, already issuing orders to field teams as she followed.
Broadway Warzone
The sustained barrage from Hulk and Abomination had transformed the street into a wind tunnel of destruction. The Hulk's hands were moving in a blur now, each thunderclap faster and more powerful than the last. The anger Smith's taunts had kindled was feeding the Hulk's strength, the familiar feedback loop of rage and power spiraling upward.
The Abomination's claps were more measured, more controlled, but no less devastating. Blonsky's tactical mind was directing the assault, angling the shockwaves to catch Smith from multiple vectors.
Smith stood unmoved at the epicenter, the hurricane battering him from all sides. His gi snapped and rippled in the wind, his tail coiling and uncoiling behind him. That predatory smile had evolved into something more primal—teeth bared, eyes bright with genuine excitement.
"That's it," he called out, his voice rising with encouragement. "Make the storm come a little harder!"
He didn't realize it—couldn't feel it consciously—but his Saiyan genetics were asserting themselves. That species-deep hunger for battle, for worthy opponents, for the pure joy of combat against someone who could actually hurt you. It was intoxicating.
The Hulk roared and increased his tempo, feeding more anger into each strike. His power climbed higher with each exchange, gamma radiation crackling around his form in barely-visible bursts.
The Abomination kept pace for another few seconds, then suddenly stopped.
Blonsky's human consciousness fully reasserted control, cutting through the berserker rage like a knife. He stood there, chest heaving, staring at Smith Doyle who hadn't moved an inch despite their combined assault.
This was meaningless. They weren't damaging him. They weren't even slowing him down. Every attack was being absorbed or deflected with casual ease, like children throwing pebbles at a tank.
Blonsky had been a soldier long enough to know when a battle was lost.